


Completely Funked Up

by The_Colonel



Series: Do Robots Dream in Technicolor? [1]
Category: Daft Punk
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Drabble, Drunk Guy - Freeform, Fluff and Humor, Grammy Awards, Harder Better Faster Stronger, Helmets, Human Daft Punk, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Stuttering, robots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 13:57:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5419625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Colonel/pseuds/The_Colonel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Daft Punk perform with Kanye West at the 2008 Grammy Awards.<br/>Thomas is nervous, but quite in his right mind.<br/>Guy-Manuel, on the other hand, is drunk.</p><p>The "true" story behind the 2008 Grammys.:)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Completely Funked Up

“Guillame Emmanuel de Homem-Christo!”

Guy-Manuel rolled his eyes, annoyed at hearing his full name pronounced. Ever since he was a child, people around him used the longest possible version of his name only when they were chastising him for some transgression he had partaken in. “Eh? Are we going on the stage yet?”

“Non.” Thomas Bangalter, dressed in his “Tron” suit, but without his helmet, sniffed the collins glass that had been standing on the table next to where the shorter of the synth pop duo was comfortably sprawled in an armchair. He frowned. “This smells suspiciously like cuba libre, you silly ass. How many of these did you have?”

“A couple,” answered Guy-Manuel, ending his statement in a tame hiccough. “No worries, though. I asked the bartender for a _virgin_ cuba libre.”

“Huh... But that would be just coke in a tall glass with some ice.”

Guy-Manuel chuckled. “I know, right?!”

Thomas sighed at his partner´s abominable sense of humour, and set the glass back onto the table. “I´m afraid the joke´s on you, mon amour. This definitely smells like coke and rum. Lot´s of rum, I´d say. And a tiiiiny wedge of lime.”

It was Guy-Mauel´s turn to frown. “But I didn´t taste the… Why would the bastard of a bartender… But I...”

“He probably didn´t share your taste in jokes,” Thomas replied and ran his gloved hand through his short cropped, yet still unruly dark curls. “Eh, ben... Are you able to go through the set with me, do you think?”

“Of course I am. Nothing wrong with me,” Guy-Manuel answered, sounding almost childishly defiant, and swiftly stood up to demonstrate his readiness. Once on his feet, he tottered and swayed wildly, and had to grab the headrest of the armchair to steady himself. “Merde!”

“Merde, indeed,” Thomas agreed.

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door of the dressing room. A young, pimply stage assistant poked his head inside. “Five minutes to go, monsieurs.”

“T-triple merde,” Thomas spat out when the assistant left. “You´re going to have to get your shit together r-really q-quick, Guy. Fuck...  I´ll at least help you with the rest of the suit, okay?”

Guy-Manuel nodded, suddenly feeling and looking deflated, insecure and almost sober. This was really bad, and they both knew it. Being control freaks by nature, both Thomas and Guy-Manuel strived for utter professionalism regarding their rare public Daft Punk performances. And being drunk on the stage was of course a huge no-no.

“Tonight of all nights!” Guy-Manuel exclaimed dramatically, as Thomas pulled on his gloves for him.

“D-don´t p-panic, Guy,” the taller man managed to smile brightly in spite of his own nervous stutter. He quickly kissed Guy-Man´s forehead and dexterously “crowned” him with the golden helmet. “It´s only the fucking Grammys.”

“Only the fucking Grammys,” repeated Guy-Manuel, but his words were muffled by the plexiglass of his robot-face.

When Thomas also put on his helmet, the two French musicians ceased to exist, and two robots who declared themselves to be human sprang to life.

They left the dressing room in unison, the tall, lanky, silver-headed robot ushering the shorter golden one through the corridor leading to the stage. Hounded by technicians adjusting their ports, their earpieces and the light-tubes on the suits, the duo entered the large pyramid in the centre of the stage via an entrance at the back, taking their respective places at the mixing unit. The silver robot on the right, the golden one on the left.

The crowd was already cheering for Kanye West, who presumably started to strut the stage in his peacockish manner, and the volume that they produced was overwhelming, crashing on the walls of the pyramid like powerful, angry waves.

The silver robot turned his head towards his partner, tapped a button on his forearm, and a red question mark appeared on the narrow visor display of his helmet.

The golden robot tapped a button, too, and answered with a large smiley face plastered all over his display.

Thomas smiled inwardly, and the silver robot pinched the golden one´s leather-clad ass.

But before the golden robot got a chance to retaliate, the time had come for them to slide down one of the front panels of the pyramid and join Kanye´s act.

Despite the fact that the mixing unit was dimly lit, the red lights from the suits reflected into the musicians´ eyes uncomfortably, and Guy-Man accidentally bumped his elbow into Thomas several times, the set went pretty smoothly. Of course that later there were some half-jokey, half-serious comments on youtube about the fact that the robot guys looked “more jittery” and “much more weird than usual”, but all in all, the brief Daft Punk appearance at the 2008 Grammys was considered a crowd-pleasing success.

The song had ended, the duo bowed and waved at the clapping, screaming audience, and then disappeared in a cloud of stage smoke.

When they were divested of their ports and other technical thingamajigs, the robots quickly made for their dressing room, shutting the door behind them. Thomas was first to literally tear the helmet off his head, nearly collapsing in a fit of relieved, almost hysterical laughter. “Y-you b-bastard! Drunk as a skunk and still rolling smooth, you sly minx!”

Guy-Manuel also unmasked himself and, maintaining the seemingly withdrawn primadonna act, gave a little uptight bow, just like a bellboy at a Four Seasons hotel. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it´s done.”

He pronounced the “g” in “gentlemen” so that it sounded like the first syllable of the notorious French phrase, “je t´aime”, and Thomas got a furious, irrepressible urge to kiss that stupid lovely face of his. Which he promptly proceeded to do.

Guy-Man tasted like cigarettes, like breath mints, like coke and rum and lime, and he panted into the kiss, panted with exhaustion, panted with exhilaration, panted with excitement, with lust and with joy.

Sadly, there came another romance-blocking knock at the door, and another, completely different yet eerily similar young and pimply stage assistant cracked open the door, just enough to convey the message, but not enough to breach the privacy of the famously reclusive artists. “You were asked to give an encore at the afterparty. Up for it, sirs?”

“As high… as up as it gets,” Thomas said, still cradling Guy-Man close to his heaving chest. A corner of Guy-Manuel´s mouth curled slightly up in a barely visible smirk.

“Righto!” answered the assistant and the door was shut again. Thomas absentmindedly reached with one of his long arms and locked the door. Guy-Manuel smiled wider, kissed Thomas on the lips, disentangled himself from the embrace, and went to the bathroom at the back of the dressing room, unceremoniously stripping of the expensive suit as he went, leaving the individual pieces lying on the ground.

Thomas quietly hummed to himself, scratched the back of his head and picked up one of Guy´s gauntlets. It was somewhat smaller than his own. When he looked up from it, he was treated to a sight of Guy standing in the door of the bathroom, completely naked, grinning like an ape.

Thomas shook his head. “Man, we need to sober you up.”

Guy gave a tiny enticing shake of his hips and a wicked light appeared in his otherwise placid, faded denim blue eyes. “I just might have a recipe for that… Guaranteed to work.”

Thomas rolled his eyes in mock-exasperation. “Ah, Guillaume. You naughty little droid. Tu es incorrigible.”

“Vraiment,” purred Guy-Man, and disappeared in the half-open doors. A few seconds later, the sound of running shower could be heard.

Thomas lingered for a few seconds, then gave in to the temptation and followed Guy-Manuel.

An unspecified temporal unit later, strange and wondrous sounds were to be heard from the shower, apart from the running water, that is.

Sounds like “aah”, “ouf”, “G-G-Guy”, and “You won the jackpot, Thomas.”

And later on, embarrassingly so, separate words.

“´arderrr.”

“Guy!”

“Betterrrr.”

“Shush, you inebriated jackass.”

“Fasterrrrrr.”

“Sou you won´t shut up, will you?”

“Strong….uuungh… ah!”

And then, merciful silence.

Well, save for one last come-up.

“Only the fucking Grammys… Vraiment.”

 

**Da End**

**Author's Note:**

> A short video of the Daft Punk/ Kanye performance is to be found on youtube:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-FH_q9HpT_w&list=RD-FH_q9HpT_w#t=35
> 
> Also, I would like to apologize to Daft Punk. I love their music dearly, so they probably deserve much bettter than to star in my ill-advised porno-ish fantasy.  
> But then, that´s life for you, I guess.  
> Also also, sorry for my pathetic French (not in use since my high school years), and also sorry for my less than perfect English. Not a native speaker, you know?  
> Eh ben. C´est la vie.  
> Vraiment.:)


End file.
